Collision of Two Worlds
by JensenAckles13
Summary: Anthony Stark, also known as the town drunk, feels the eyes of a stranger on him one day in the fighting rink. One glance told him all he needed to know; royalty, rebellious, kind of heart, mischievous...all the qualities of a good man. It's an emotional rollercoaster from start to finish, and neither of them know what happened to start this all off.


Tony passed a hand over his brow, his eyes falling shut. He needed the money; everyone knew he did. He was poor, and lived in a ridiculously small flat. He just wasn't sure if this was worth it. He knew what the man was going to do; he always did. It was easy, once you figured out ones mannerisms, to predict what they were going to do.  
He took another harsh hit to the gut, which was quickly followed by one to the jaw that sent him reeling, crashing into one of the wooden gate walls. He painstakingly pulled himself up- and that was when he saw him. Standing towards the back, smiling as he no doubt thought he would win. From his clean, silken tunic to his locks of chocolate curls and the sword at his hip; he screamed royalty. It took a mere five seconds to determine he was the prince. What he was doing in this god-awful fight club? Now that was a question. Entertainment? Or perhaps rebellion…

"Get up!" the hulking and very drunk man behind him shouted. He stood slowly, not bothering to brush away the sand that stuck to his sweat-soaked body. He locked eyes with the stranger, letting a ghost of a smile grace his features. The stranger- prince- raised a brow, tilting his head to the side.

"That's it, big man. You've won." It was said over his back. He needn't face him for that. But he'd like to picture how it would work anyway.

"Oi! We ain't done yet!"

He let his shoulders relax, picturing in the minds-eye exactly what the man behind him would do, and the perfect counter attack.  
_First, distract the target. The handkerchief would have to do. Then block his blind jab, counter with cross to left cheek. Discombobulate. Dazed, will attempt wild haymaker. Employ elbow block and body shot. Block feral left, weaken right jaw, now fracture. Break cracked ribs, traumatize solar plexus, dislocate jaw entirely. Heel kick to diaphragm_…When he came back to himself, it was to the feeling of someone spitting on the back of his head.  
Tony kept his eyes on the stranger, who seemed to chuckle at Tony's naivety, for another moment before taking up the handkerchief that was over the railing of their little rink. He wiped at the back of his head, turning to face McMurdo, who hunkered down into his fighting stance. Tony didn't follow suit. No, he threw the handkerchief into the face of his opponent. He blocked the blind punch that was thrown his way, throwing a left cross and then clapping his hands over both the man's ears. He blocked the next punch with his elbow, and sent a punch into the man's jaw, weakening it. Another cross and Tony fractured the man's jaw. He broke the cracked ribs he'd earlier given him, slammed the heel of his hand into the man's solar plexus, and then dislocated the man's jaw with a punch. He reared back, slamming his heel into the man's diaphragm, sending him crashing through the wooden gate.  
This had taken a total of six seconds.  
_In summary: ears ringing, jaw fractured, three ribs cracked, four broken, diaphragm hemorrhaging. Physical recovery: six weeks. Psychological recovery: six months. Capacity to spit at back of head: neutralized.  
_Silence fell.  
Tony picked up his winnings, and made his way to the bar, where the handsome stranger was leaning, looking at him with shocked eyes.  
Tony grabbed a bottle of liquor from the bar and pulled the cork out with his teeth. He gazed at the man for a moment.

"Hope you didn't lose too much," he said quietly, throwing in a wink before taking a long drink of the liquor, relishing the burn as it slid smoothly down his throat. A moment later he heard the shuffle of footsteps he was expecting.

"How was it you accomplished _that?_" a soft, English accented voice asked behind him. He didn't turn, but answered anyway.

"I knew what he was going to do," he said simply. He heard a scoff, and the curly haired man came to stand beside him.

"No you couldn't. There has to be a more logical reason," the man replied, watching him with sharp green eyes. Tony raised a brow.

"Oh, couldn't you?" he challenged. Those eyes narrowed.

"Okay. You could somehow see what he was planning on doing. That still doesn't tell me how you-"

"Oh, but it does."

"You didn't know what I was going-"

"I did. It did tell you how I was going to beat him. You only have to be listening." He let a small, barely there smile pass his features as the man tilted his head to the side, watching him closely, as if he were a lab specimen.

"That's impossible." He finally seemed to come to a conclusion. Tony shrugged.

"When you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, shall be the truth." The man blinked a few times, seeming to ponder this for a moment, before nodding, as if he accepted the answer.

"May I ask where you learned to fight like that?"

"Like every good man," he said, his smile growing a bit. "I taught myself."

"Oh, are you saying you're better than I?" the man asked. Tony smirked.

"Perhaps," he replied slyly, turning his head to look at the man. "But now it is my turn for questions. What is royalty doing here? It's not exactly the…cultural hub of the century." He gestured round at the lowly lit street lamps and the people, whose clothes resembled nothing more than dirty rags.

"Oh, entertainment, really," the man said, smiling. "And you knew I was royalty, how….?"

"You stick out here like a sore thumb, sire," Tony deadpanned. The stranger narrowed his eyes a bit.

"You mustn't call me 'sire' when I am not at home. I am no sire here."

"Ah, so it is in rebellion of your father?" Tony asked. The stranger tilted his head to the side.

"Yes, I suppose so."

"Well, I could think of multiple ways to do _that_. Come back, have a drink with me." He smiled a real, genuine smile. The stranger was just about to answer, but a sleek black coach pulled up, with a rather angry looking driver with a handlebar mustache.

"Pardon me, but I must go. Oh, and I am Prince Odinson." The stranger rushed his words and began hurrying into the coach.

"Do you have a first name?" Tony called after him, watching him.

"Oh, my apologies. Loki. My name is Loki." He closed the door, but then stuck his head out the window. "What do I call you?"

"Anthony," he said, smiling a bit. "Or Tony. Whichever you prefer."

"Anthony….do you have a last name?"

"I do. It is Stark." He stepped back as the horses whinnied impatiently, huffing and stamping their hooves.

"Anthony Stark." Loki was quiet for a moment before asking. "Where do I find you?"  
Tony smiled; he'd been getting worried that he'd miscalculated and Loki wasn't actually going to ask. He'd been so sure too.  
Tony took the folded slip of paper from his pocket, taking Loki's hand and pushing the slip into his palm, closing both the prince's hands around it.

"If I'm not there, I'll likely be back quite soon. You can wait inside, if you please." He stepped back once more.

"And, pray tell, how must you know I will be coming?" Loki settled back in the coach, but his eyes were still on Tony.

"I thought we had this discussion earlier? Mannerisms, my darling. And perhaps a bit of educated guessing." He stepped back, watching as the driver brought his riding crop down on the horses rears'. They startled into a gallop, whinnying.

"Until next time, Anthony Stark!" Loki called, his hair wild with wind as he stuck his head out the window. Tony raised a hand in response, watching as the coach rounded a corner, taking Loki out of sight.

"Until next time indeed," he murmured. Whistling some old Beethoven tune, he made his way back to his flat, immediately setting to work on finding out all he could about one Prince Loki Odinson.


End file.
